Schooled in Shrewsbury
- David Ingham
- 7 hours ago
- 5 min read
Shrewsbury (A) - EFL League 2 - 11th February 2026
Hope, like the burgeoning waters of the Severn, rises and flows through football supporters with each turn of the fixture calendar. Despite all evidence laid in front of us, this could be the one. THIS could be it. Our ramshackle collection of knock-kneed pea hearts may be galvanised into a 90 minute performance that hints in the direction of competency. You never know. So after trips to Swindon and Notts County, once again I was heading south to raise a cheer for those Bluebirds.
Deepest Shropshire doesn’t naturally lend itself to a midweek game when your world is based on Morecambe Bay but handily enough my current employers have an office in the town so a few conveniently arranged meetings were thrown in the diary to give a thin veneer of professionalism to what was obviously a Barrow-focused trip. Setting off at 6am, it took 3 hours thanks to various bumps and congestion. Passing a sign for Wrexham one way, Chester in the opposite brought the reminder of how footballing fortunes can diverge thanks to decisions, moments and people. Externalities as well as what’s in your own gift. Much to ponder.
A few colleagues were off to the match themselves, none of us particularly confident in the abilities of our team. As the rain fell through the day we even speculated on a postponement and how that might be alright, actually. No such luck.
The hooter blew at 5 and I made my way into town to meet another car load who had braved the journey. We rendezvoused at a burger joint for a delicious onboarding of excessive calories, followed by a pint in one of Shrewsbury’s many fine ale houses. This is why I like travelling away, seeing towns I’d probably not bother with if the fixtures didn’t decree my presence was needed. You have to make the most of it before Eastleigh calls again.
As Shrewsbury’s new ground – my last ‘tick’ in L2 – is one of these out of town flat packs, they are keen on a travel plan and deterring the motorist. Things I usually agree with, but not when I have to get home afterwards. I’d booked a spot on the club car park. Ten of your English pounds, no less. I didn’t realise but you get allocated a space, dished out by a poor sod with an umbrella over his laptop.
“112 for you mate”.
“Ok, where’s that?”
“Up the far end”
“Wherebouts? Which row?”
“Not sure….the numbers are on the floor”
Brilliant, thanks. The numbers were on the floor but there was no lighting and half of them were covered in puddles. Wonderful. Modern grounds…modern Britain.
The ground itself is Colchesterian in terms of its anonymity and the ‘by numbers’ feel as added to by the home support’s songbook. The usual two or three dirges. Strangely there was a drum behind the goal and one down the side. Has there been a split? Is it religion or politics, I wonder? Either way, in a just and honest world clubs that have drums should have points deducted. Clubs that have two should be banished from the sport entirely. Would we stay up if they were expunged and it was one down? It’s worth looking into but don’t ask Alisha to check the rules for us.
I took my place amongst our assembled throng and hoped for the best. The pitch was sodden and not conducive to any type of passing football, this was going to be a battle. The first half largely lived up to it’s pre-match billing of two shite teams plodding against each other with very little quality on show. We had the better of the opening exchanges with a foray down the right on 8 minutes and a few corners culminating in the home keeper making a save on 13. Sadly, that was about it. On 20 minutes I thought Newby was lucky to not give away a penalty after falling into his man and dragging him down. On 40, Malcolm dithering on the ball saw him dispossessed and a curling shot went wide. Yes, 20 minutes between noteworthy events. That’s how poor it was.
Just before half time with a clean sheet in view Shrewsbury raided down the right and Canavan gave away the most brain dead of fouls. Thankfully it came to nothing but crikey moses, do we want to help ourselves or not?
The half time consensus was that it was poor, there was nothing in it and we could maybe sneak a win.
Changes made and Barkhuizen and Whitfield replaced the unluckily hooked Powell and the deservedly hooked Malcolm. Positive changes. Let’s see. Sure enough, even before everyone had returned to their seats after the break we were a goal behind. Shit defending from a set piece, again. Basics not done, again.
Shrewsbury could barely believe their luck. “How shit must you be, we’re winning at home”. Well I think we know the answer to that. On 53 the game was up. A long throw, 5 or 6 ‘defenders’ missing the ball and their lad comes in at the far post to seal the points. For the absolute love of Cowps. What are doing here? Head the sodding thing. Kick it. I demand no artistry or nuance. Just apply a forehead, size 10 or any other body part to the ball to keep it away from the net. Basics, basics, fundamentals.
A few minutes later a Shrewsbury defensive error was capitalised on in typical Barrow fashion – i.e. slowly, in a confused manner which ultimately led to nothing. Any hope of a swift comeback scotched by our own ineptitude.
The game settled into a spell of them sitting back, playing the percentages and us having little idea as to what to do. And on 70 minutes I’m afraid to say I’d seen enough so my report ends here. I think I’ve left early twice in a decade – the other time was after Mahoney’s penalty miss against Harrogate last season.
I believe there were a few home truths dished out at the end by the travelling support, as well as the brain dead retort from some self-appointed guardians of the truth that only people who have ‘played the game’ are allowed to criticise. Well, I’ve never owned a restaurant but I know burnt chips when they are put in front of me. And at the minute we’re being served up bowls of week-old sick.
I dropped a shoulder partly because I couldn’t see a way back to a point and partly because if I’d left at full time it would have taken half an hour to get out of the car park and a near 1am return. As it was I had the key in the door well before midnight, a mere 17 odd hours since departing, the journey home spent pondering all the what ifs, the why’s and the what the fucking hell are we playing ats.
But today is a new day, Saturday is another game and who knows, we might even have a new gaffer in place to do all the required gaffering - rumours of Darrell Clarke’s impending arrival had been swirling through the group chats through the day - but I’m not watching the goals back anytime soon as I’m sick of the sight of us after the last week. I don’t want to hear any interviews or read exhortations to ‘Back the boys and bring the noise’. In the week of Valentine’s Day I think we’re at the point of spending a few days in separate beds rather than having an all-consuming affair until the weekend and the visit of those delightful Cowley brothers.
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